Preamble
France
beat Saudi Arabia and Uzbekistan by a margin of Namibia. But the number of
burgers I’ve eaten in the past ten years somehow beat the number of movies I’ve seen in a theater, lifetime, by a margin of
my high school graduating class plus the number of colleagues I have at work.
Burgers over France? I don’t have to tell you: this is a travesty.
So
even though the threshold for an official response is Citi Field, we’re aiming
for the L.A. Coliseum on this. And give what you can: laps at Daytona; the
Kármán Line. Even just the number of pets I’ve had could help make the
difference over Saudi Arabia and Uzbekistan.
Remember:
the best way to fight is the way we tell you to. I mean, clearly, if you can
walk and chew gum at the same time then of course you should do it, but chewing
gum is better right now. We all have to be chewing gum, together. If we’re all
chewing gum, we can make it so that Saudi Arabia and Uzbekistan and burgers
never even happened. If we all chew gum now, by National Mentoring Month, we
could all be watching movies in France.
Imagine
what it would mean if we were all united. We could once and for all vanquish
the rhetoric of wet socks and airport bars that don’t open before nine. We
could dismiss for good the roaches and heights and open water dominating our
lives. All the back and shoulder and rib in the winter would have been worth
the-time-a-friend-took-three-Klonopin-and-tried-to fuck-his-cousin of this
cycle.
This
is the most important thing you’ll do. Like the drive said: those who would
give up an essential bell to buy a little temporary dance deserve neither bells
nor dances. Now is not the time to stop thinking about whether I should go to that
ugly Christmas sweater party or if I even want to spend up to seventy dollars
on an ugly Christmas sweater, which is the root cause of a half-decent Beatles
song.
I
can’t even find a good one. I ran a search for maybe a second, and I got
literally millions of refugees. All kinds. Syrian refugees; Tunisian refugees.
Yemeni refugees. I don’t want to show up wearing the same refugee as somebody
else, but I also don’t want to spend the rest of my life searching for the
perfect refugee. You know?
Doesn’t
even start ‘til after nine. After a whole invasion of Iraq and subsequent
expansion of the War on Terror to include the extrajudicial assassination of
human beings by drone, just about the last fucking thing I want to do is
not-bathe in lead-contaminated water, put on a refugee, and stand around
listening to pointless conversations wiretapped with only the rubber stamp of a
secret court proceeding.
My
brother picked up a pretty sweet refugee, though. Said he saved the number of
children who can be shot to death at an elementary school four years ago only
to become a footnote in an encyclopedia of brutality for the nation at large.
I’m just as shocked as you are.
Anyway,
thank you for your support. We’ll be in touch.
What Left
The Past is
what left.
Not a sepia past or a
horns-and-bass past, or a
horse-and-buggy past, but
the constant Past.
The only Past.
Yesterday is always gone
and if you think that’s simple
then you’re a fucking prick.
Yesterday is always simply gone,
and no proof exists of Tomorrow.
Of it, there is only Evidence:
the sun rose Yesterday, and we live,
presently, so the sun may well rise
Tomorrow.
We treat the Past
like a lover cheating
after we cheated,
its trespasses never so fucking clear
as when the Past trespasses against us.
All the rules bent
and theories elided;
the loyalties assumed;
the arrogance
that just because one has something
that means one may keep something.
The Past dies daily.
The Past dies for those
shot by a cop or drowned by
dark waters. It leaves daily
for those shoved to the dirt or
dropped off the rolls.
It leaves
daily for anyone
who’d count those poor souls
as relations,
for everyone to whom
such terrors are due,
for anyone who fears the new,
and the fucking rest of us, too.
That is the only Truth.
And yet,
the Truth is full of ants.
They march within it; consume what
makes it, then spill like water
pouring from its cracks turned holes,
turned chasms.
Do ants scurry? Fucking fine.
Once they rush forth from the Truth
like the tide rushing in, they scurry
the fuck away.
This is key. This is vital.
One might wake up every morning
and try to truly
understand that
Yesterday is always gone:
the Past dies daily,
leaving only Evidence.
And the Truth is full
of fucking ants.
What
Was Never Here
Party
Guest: “Oh, but really biting satire is always better than physical force.”
Isaac
Davis: “No, physical force is always better with Nazis.”
—Manhattan
(1979), by Woody Allen*
Fucking evidence is never fucking proof.
Until you see the fucking sun rise, you
cannot prove the sun will fuc
king rise tomorrow.
Frankly, that truth has been my fucking
rock,
unleashed through maddening years of the
fucking
chiseling that is the crush of injustice
every fuc
king day.
Forget proof. There’s no fucking proof,
unless you’re a fucking mathematician,
in which
case there’s proof all day long, that
ends in fuc
king paradox.
Forget justice. There is no fucking
justice,
under the weight of so fucking many
clawing for what so few can ever fuc
king have.
Forget Earth. There is no fucking
Earth:
umbilical fucking fealty paid to the
Sun,
circling it until the end of its fuc
king life.
Forge some faith in fucking
imagination, for its
uses go beyond fantasies of a
fucking elf
coming to our rescue on the back of
a fuc
king dragon.
Forge some fucking love for
fundamental
uncertainty, and find some fucking
comfort in the fact that we are fuc
king here.
For now and always, our fucking
existence is an
unqualified fucking miracle, that requires
constant respect and attention, lest
it one day fuc
king stop.
For my sake and yours, drop the
fucking
understatement and kill the fucking
craven jokes and let’s focus on the
fuc
king terror.
For despite all the fucking bitching
uninhibited by that fucking lack of
imagination,
come January that jackass will be the fuc
king President.
Fucking help a stranger like we f
ucking love ourselves, not just because
we fu
cking must but ‘cause we fuc
king can.
*alleged
rapist who’s still making movies, despite investigations,
the publishing of a heartrending letter by his accuser, and years
of jokes/petitions/think pieces.
the publishing of a heartrending letter by his accuser, and years
of jokes/petitions/think pieces.
What
We Never Wanted
(with gratitude to James Luther
Dickinson)
This did not “happen” to us.
This is something we made.
Pray we learn that same distrust.
We’ve guzzled fame like our guts
wouldn’t bust.
It warbled and cheeped like a penny
arcade.
This did not “happen” to us.
Duty is borne like a hernia truss.
Grant us a break from “slaying” and
“shade.”
Pray we learn that same distrust.
Magazine marches and newspaper lust.
Beers slapped on tabs that are
easily paid.
This did not “happen” to us.
Flash flies a jet while work takes
the bus.
Glory snorts concert and satire
parade.
Pray we learn that same distrust.
The wages of fame are ashes and
rust.
Duty is plain, dull, and quietly
paid.
This did not “happen” to us.
Pray we learn that same distrust.
What
Remains
All that ever lasts is Memory.
With it,
from the detritus
of the rest—
the hazes and pangs
from our rust and rot,
those phases of Yesterday;
the dust of Evidence of
the regular death of the Past;
the waste of Truth—
springs the glory of all humanity
upon which our survival hangs.
Memory brings us home to fall
in love and sends us out
to fall from it.
Memory breathes,
and breeds contempt
and seeds desire
for more Memory. Each of us
is reborn over seven years, then
over again;
over again;
I will start my fifth life soon,
with the memories of a boy long
dead. Them I completely own:
with the memories of a boy long
dead. Them I completely own:
the worst I’ve done; the best I
am: I remember it. And more: I
have it, as it has me. Every day
am: I remember it. And more: I
have it, as it has me. Every day
gone is me, and the hope for
days to come are me, too,
days to come are me, too,
as much as they are you.
I don’t need to rise. I’m here
already! As are you, and you,
and you—you especially, you
already! As are you, and you,
and you—you especially, you
interminably, you magnificently
and cravenly—you because I
remember you, you lushly and
and cravenly—you because I
remember you, you lushly and
proud and loudly and precious
and luscious and profound.
and luscious and profound.
We are here already,
and we’ve been here before,
and because we may yet be
here again, we cannot forget
we are already involved.
The terms of resistance
are presented us daily.
We have others who’ll imagine
with us; who’ll love and fight
with us; who’ll dance under dim
with us; who’ll love and fight
with us; who’ll dance under dim
lights with us and work in quiet
rooms; we have others to push
with us to fix what uncertainty
rooms; we have others to push
with us to fix what uncertainty
breaks and make what i
imagination demands. We have
that dogged persistence and
imagination demands. We have
that dogged persistence and
riotous pacing; we know how to
show reverence and respect
for those in pain. We have alms;
show reverence and respect
for those in pain. We have alms;
we give alms. We recall our
duty. We’ve just been
duty. We’ve just been
assholes about it.
Nine days in ten we bury that
duty. We can’t bear reminders
duty. We can’t bear reminders
of our mortality.
But we’ll always have to do this.
On a gray Tuesday in March
if there’ll be one; on a bright
Friday in June if it comes.
Rain; sleet; hail; snow.
Heat; breeze; chill; damp.
We chase Fascist jackbooters;
Communist murderers. Loathe
Democrat grifters;
Communist murderers. Loathe
Democrat grifters;
Republican looters. They’re as
guilty of obstructing progress as
we are of assuming it.
guilty of obstructing progress as
we are of assuming it.
Who’s the bastard this time? Is
it Donald Trump? Very well,
then. It’s Donald Trump.
it Donald Trump? Very well,
then. It’s Donald Trump.
I fear no man
too cheap for his suit.
I fear no men
duped by a wall.
I pity an idiot
who vomits a screed
and calls it smart;
I pity the art
of a flimsy deal.
I don’t wish a man harm
but to his ego. I want
a man gone but more
than Evidence suggests
he could ever consider,
I want us healed,
and moving. I want our
Memories long, and vibrant;
Memories long, and vibrant;
I want us looking over our
shoulder not in fear of what
might come but with respect for
might come but with respect for
what always does.
This is as much
warning. Remember:
Newton found the Truth, too.
